Love is a Four Letter Word
by MandaPanda2
Summary: Two unlikely people drown their sorrows together at the end of the day.
1. Love is a Four Letter Word

Disclaimer: All characters (unless otherwise specified) belong to Aaron Spelling, E. Duke Vincent, Gary Tomlin, NBC, et al and are used here strictly for non-profit entertainment purposes.  
Rating: PG 14  
Genre: Angsty Drama  
Spoilers: Definitely for the first month of the show, but I'm just going to say the entire series. However, I slightly altered canon for this story to work.  
Summary: Two unlikely people drown their sorrows together at the end of the day.

* * *

He noticed her immediately. 

His eyes followed her over the rim of his beer as she took a seat at the bar, shrugging off her black cape and hanging it on the back of the bar stool. Swigging out of the bottle, he leaned back in his chair and kept watching. Her long hair bounced as she tossed her head back, downing her martini in one long gulp.

What was she doing here anyway? This was definitely the wrong side of the pier for a woman like her. The bar was seedy, known for being one of the roughest in Sunset Beach. How many times had he been called here as a beat cop to break up a shoving match that had gotten out of control? Too many times to count.

The dark corner afforded him the privacy he wanted, not that he really needed it. He knew no one who would be here. No one that was desperate enough to hide from the world and drown themselves in alcohol.

No one, it appeared, except _her_.

Not that he knew her. Knew of her, yes. Everyone did. The woman who ruled Sunset Beach or so said the local gossip hounds. Richer than rich, as the string of black pearls with the large diamond solitaire around her neck attested. He had gotten an eyeful of it when they were crouched on the floor of the station house earlier, the Douglas file in between them. He had stared into her eyes then, relishing in her surprise of being caught. They were practically violet, like his late sister's favorite movie star.

He sat up quickly, roughly pushing away the nearly empty bottle of beer. Maria, dead and buried…what made him think of her now?

Annie. His sister's best friend in the world. He found himself twisting his hands, rubbing him palms on his thighs…as if that would rid them of the blood that stained them. Annie's blood.

He hung his head, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes closed. Not that it helped him drown the sound of Annie screaming from inside the crematorium's oven. Those desperate shrieks for help as the flames leapt around her. The horrible stench of the burnt filled his consciousness, tormenting him more than the sounds as he opened his exhausted eyes.

If only she hadn't run. If only she hadn't resisted arrest. If only the evidence hadn't pointed to her. If only-

One could fill the emptiness of an eternity wondering "if only".

His hand fell, knocking into the bottle and turning it on its side with a sharp clink. The remaining beer bubbled out, running across the surface of the rough wooden table and into his lap as it dripped over the side. The bottle quivered once before rocking to a stop in front of him. Belly up and unprotected, like Annie.

He pushed away from the table abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the floor as he stood up. His chest was tight, blocks pressing around his head as he gazed blindly in front of him. Smoke hung in the air, catching the dim light of the hanging lamps.

She was still sitting at the bar, her back perfectly straight. She was sipping her drink now, the desperation from earlier gone. The black cape hung teasingly from the chair, the hood falling to a point just above the cement floor.

It didn't matter anymore that she had a black hooded cape. It didn't matter anymore that she had been seen at the resort, that she was having an affair with the victim. The case was closed, seemingly killed along with its prime suspect.

He looked at her for a long moment before glancing back to his table. The bottle was empty and he wasn't nearly as drunk as he wanted to be, as drunk as he _needed_ to be. He could still hear her screams, see her eyes pleading from behind the bars of the jail cell that he put her in.

He shuffled over to the bar, squinting as he stepped out of the shadows. A weak beam of light flickered from a dangling lamp and he rubbed his eyes as he leaned into the bar a few places from where she sat.

"Another one?"

He shook his head, waving aside the rule about mixing liquors. "Tequila, tall and neat."

When the bartender turned away, he did too. She hadn't noticed him yet. And maybe she wouldn't, period. After all, she didn't know him anymore than he knew her. Her eyes were lowered, staring quietly into her drink. Was she looking for oblivion too?

The bartender slid the tall glass across the bar and he took it, ready to turn away when she ordered another drink. How long had they been here? His concept of time no longer existed, despite the weight of a watch on his wrist.

He watched her in profile. The dead stare in her eyes, the way her fingers absentmindedly drummed the surface, the flash of the enormous diamond on her left hand.

His feet were moving toward her before he realized it, determined and with a mind of their own. She was nibbling on an olive now, rescued from the drink she had demolished. He was behind her now, no more than a breath away from her. Close enough for him to smell the perfume that clung to her. The warm scent of vanilla spice and flowers chased away the acrid scent of charred flesh that had consumed him.

As the bartender set her drink in front of her, he leaned down close to her ear and asked in a whisper, "You aren't going to be driving tonight, are you?"

She flinched in surprise and turned to him, her eyes wide with questioning. He stood straight and watched the confusion in her face, her mind working against the haze that was quickly setting in. He saw the recognition dawn and she smirked, her lips curling as her eyebrow arched.

"I don't think so, Detective. You took away my license, remember?"

"The law took it away- the law _you_ broke." She shrugged disinterestedly and turned back to her drink, raising the glass to her lips and taking a long sip. "But that wouldn't stop you, now would it?" he continued after a meaningful pause.

Her eyes narrowed, though her gaze stayed dead ahead. "I thought you weren't allowed to drink on the job."

He shrugged as the tequila burned its way down his throat. "I'm not on the clock."

She glanced sideways at him and nudged the empty stool next to her with her foot. "I can't stand it when men hover."

He slid into the seat, turning as he said, "Your husband seems like a hoverer."

She chuckled and he couldn't help but think it sounded like she was drowning, so muffled was the sound against the rim of her glass. "Some days…" she trailed off, a faraway look clouding her eyes. She put down the glass, grazing the sparkling diamond on her left hand. "Nothing is ever as certain as we've led ourselves to believe," she whispered. "Don't you think?"

He hunkered over the bar, staring down at the fine grains streaking through the wood. "I'm trying not to."

"Be certain?"

"Think," he corrected, wrapping his hands around the thick base of the glass.

"Bad day?"

He grimaced as a lead ball dropped into the pit of his stomach. "To say the least."

She turned to him, the thin stem of glass balanced delicately between her fingers. "The very least?"

He looked away, his head knocking back as he took more of his drink. There was a tiny nick below his earlobe, a thin red scar that indicated a heavy hand when shaving this morning.

This morning seemed so long ago. And it had been so cruel, the promise of hope as the sun rose in the lightening sky. The day dawned beautifully, bright sunshine and hardly any clouds in the sky. A warm breeze rustled through the trees, stirring her hair and whipping the grass at the gravesite.

Her throat worked as she thought of the grave, of the pact they made. Forever, they had promised, covering their hands over the open grave as if that would somehow cover what they had done. Twenty-two years ago she had believe in forever.

Twenty-two years ago, they had been best friends, drinking and giggling late into the dark night.

The martini licked at her lips and she sipped it lightly as she watched him. The last time she saw him, his dark eyes were bound and determined to nail her. Her and Gregory for murder.

She snorted into her drink as she thought of them both. Del, grabbing her shoulders and pleading for her to leave with him. Gregory, grabbing her shoulders and pleading for her to tell him what she knew. Both of them wanting only what they needed from her, never considering her so long as she met their means.

She set the drink down, her hand a scant few inches from his. Del was far unluckier, taking a bullet to the gut rather than taking her away. And Gregory…come hell or high water, he'd always end up on top with his cultivated reputation in tact. At least one thing in this wretched life was a constant.

"I killed someone today."

She looked up, shaking off the silence that she had sat in. "What?"

Anguished eyes turned on her and he said flatly, "I. Killed. Someone. Today."

She watched him flex his hands, the bones popping as he did. "But," she wondered, "isn't that your job?"

"No!" He turned on her, the anguish blazing brighter as he leaned closer and grabbed her wrist. "No! Killing isn't what I do!" He squeezed harder as he grew more desperate to explain, to save the last scrap of sanity he had. "I'm-" he broke off, lowering his eyes. "I'm supposed to save lives, not end them. _Save them_," he whispered as he let go, throwing away her hand and reaching for his glass.

She cradled her wrist, massaging the points where his fingers dug into her flesh. He returned his drink to the bar with a heavy thunk, hanging his head in his hands. She frowned and took a long sip from her own. It seemed she and the good detective were more alike than they realized.

"So now you're here, drowning yourself in alcohol. Hoping that anything will dull the pain that you're wallowing in."

"Is that so bad?"

"You're asking me?" He looked over and chuckled as she smiled over the rim of her glass. "No really, I'm flattered. Not many people take advice from the town drunk."

"You aren't the town drunk." She glanced over in surprise, her fingers twisting with the string of pearls around her neck. "Stew McGinty over on Crest still has you beat by a few drinks."

She cocked her head, her dark hair tumbling off her shoulder to cascade down her back. "Nice to know that the distinction is within my grasp." She elbowed his arm and raised her glass. "To Stew McGinty," she said, the words beginning to slur together. "For giving us something to aim for."

He knocked his glass lightly against hers, locking eyes with her for more than a brief moment. They were dull, lifeless as she stared back at him. Her fingers lazily circled the air above his hand as she finished the rest of her martini in one long gulp.

She looked back at him proudly as she set the empty glass down. Her full lips glistened, a drop of alcohol catching in the faint light. Her pink tongue darted out to lap it up like a cat did milk and he felt the tightening in his groin. He shifted uncomfortably as she scooted closer, her dark suit falling open just enough for him to see the swell of her breast.

He saw her mouth moving, but no words entered his being. The pounding of his heart thundered in his ears as a warm, alcohol-induced lethargy swept over him. Her knee brushed against his thigh, sending a bullet of electricity through him. His hand slid down his thigh, brushing against the rounded peak of her kneecap.

"Detective?"

He met her questioning eyes, leaning closer to her as he asked, "What?"

She chuckled, a throaty sound from deep in her throat. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"No," he confessed, shaking his head slightly.

"And why not?"

"I was just wondering why your husband lets you drink so much."

She sat up, pulling her knee away from the fragile grasp his fingers had on it as her face hardened. "Why?"

"I'm curious," he admitted. "You've been pulled over so many times for DUI's…there has to be a reason."

"Why I drink?" she asked sharply, crossing her legs in front of him. "Or why he lets me?"

"Both, I guess."

She sighed, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. "I drink," she began softly, the taste of gin blanketing her lips, "because he doesn't care to stop me." Her eyes turned away from his, not wanting to see what was surely there. "What made you come here?"

"I told you, I kill-"

"Not here to the bar," she interrupted, folding the cocktail napkin until it was smaller than a dime. "Here to me."

He shrugged, taking the last swallow of tequila and pushing the glass away. "I don't know yet."


	2. Until Today

(See first part for disclaimer, notes, spoilers, etc.)

Chapter 2: "Until Today"

She couldn't remember whose idea it was to leave the bar. He held her hand as she stood slowly, laughing with her when the heel dangling precariously from her foot finally fell to the floor. She watched him bend down, grasping his shoulder as he slid the expensive pump back on. His hand stayed still for a long moment, molded to her calf as he looked up quietly at her.

Nor could she remember whose idea it was to walk down the street to the motel that looked like it had been around since the beginning of time. A neon sign flickered in the dingy window, as if it wasn't completely sure it wanted to welcome patrons.

The air outside was oppressive, a sticky warmth with no breeze at all. The jittery air-conditioning inside was a welcome relief and she gathered her thick hair away from her neck. She leaned against the wall, watching his back as he signed the register. He insisted on footing this bill and she let him…because his eyes gave her no room to say no.

She smiled to herself, recalling the way he protested when she attempted to cover both of their tabs. Their hands clumsily fighting, a tug of war over a slip of paper. It had seemed funny, the two of them arguing over who was sober enough to pay. She had won in the end after she had fallen into his arms, the result of a particularly strong pull from him. He had expected the bill and got her instead.

The old man behind the counter slid the room key across the linoleum counter, the key attached to a pink rabbit's foot. He turned around, amusement playing across his face as he held it up teasingly.

She burst out laughing, covering her mouth as he took her arm and led her down the hallway. The wallpaper peeled away from the wall at the corners, yellowed with age and poor upkeep. A mosquito flittered in front of her face and she swat at it lazily, long after it passed her.

She turned to him, about to ask if they were there yet when he stopped without warning. He grasped her waist when she stumbled and she wondered why he wasn't having nearly as much trouble with the walking as she was.

"You hold onto me, I hold onto you," he said as he turned the key and pushed open the door.

She squinted at him, her hands on her hips as she kicked off her heels. His back was to her again, the door locking with a resounding click. Her handbag fell to the floor, landing on the carpet, a worn carpet that was a revolting shade of orange. "Why did you say that?" she asked, sinking down to the lumpy mattress.

"You asked." The pink rabbit foot landed on the wood table in the corner, fitting in nicely with the cigarette burns and scratches on the surface. He flopped heavily on the bed, causing her to grab hold of the brown comforter for stability and grimace. "Sorry."

"Don't be," she sighed as she leaned back, her hair fanning out beneath her head. "It's the price we pay."

He folded his arm, resting his head on it as he watched her. She stared up at the popcorn ceiling and the fan, rotating silently and gracing them with a light breeze. The fine wrinkles and slight puffiness licking at her eyes seemed deeper and harsher under the unforgiving light. He could only imagine what it showed on him and he shook his head because in the end, he really didn't want to know.

"You're staring," she whispered, turning on her side to face him as he reached behind to kill the overhead light. Shadows ensconced the room, faint silvery light from the moon being the only thing that allowed her to see him.

"So are you," he pointed out, inching closer to her.

"Yes, but at the ceiling."

"Find anything interesting?"

She smiled tiredly, tucking her hand beneath her cheek. "Not really." He watched quietly as she reached out, her index finger resting square on his chest. "What did _you_ find?"

"A mystery."

Her finger trailed down, her hand sitting heavily on the mattress. "And you're determined to solve it?"

He shrugged as his face moved to within inches of hers. Her shallow breath grazed his chin, the scent of gin dancing on it. His lips twitched and he wondered briefly what it would be like to press his lips against hers. She pressed her finger to his mouth, a disappointing substitute for what he wanted from her.

"I'm really not, you know…a mystery."

"I know."

"Do you?" She looked up, her head propped on her arm.

He looked up at the light sound of her pearls rubbing together. She was playing with them, pulling them away from her neck and rolling them between her fingers. She forced a smile, working hard to cover the hurt in her eyes. The pain was wider, deeper than the ocean, and just as turbulent.

She looked away and sighed deeply, a deep wavering breath that was heavy with conflict. He held her gaze for a long moment, searching the depths of her eyes while she continued to anxiously finger the pearls. He reached up, covering her twitching fingers with his hand. She raised her eyes slowly to his, her fingers curling up within his.

"Did you ever feel that everything was spinning out of control?" she asked in a breathy whisper as he inched closer to her, their knees brushing together. The inside of his palm was rough, worn from the labor of hard work. Different from Gregory's, but with the same strong warmth.

"Not until today," he whispered back, his heavy shoes falling to the floor with a loud thud.

She blinked once at the sound, gently pulling her hand away from his. He reached out, his finger tracing the delicate stitching on the lapel of her suit and down to the large round buttons. They popped out of the slits, one after the other until the suit jacket hung open. He reached for her, longing to feel her bare flesh beneath his hands when she pushed his hand away. Her arm curled around his neck, a heavy weight around his shoulders.

Loud music from the room next door made the walls vibrate, but they very well may have been the last people in the world. She closed her eyes as their mouths met, as if she could close herself off from the reality that would come with the rising sun. His hands slid around to her back, pressing them tight against her.

He rolled over, pinning her body beneath his as he maintained the lock he had on her lips. Her hands fought with his shirt, anxious to divest him of it. She pulled it off him, tossing it aside as his lips fondled the skin of her neck. The taut muscles of his back flexed beneath her hands as he ripped the silky black bra from her chest.

There was an urgency with her…and him too, he decided as the feeling of her naked chest against his stirred him onward. Her hips ground against him and he groaned, a guttural rumble that echoed in the room. The clasp of his belt fell apart and with barely a whisper, it slid out from the loops of his pants.

His lips kneaded her chest, his head pressed to her flesh. She bit her lip, wrapping her legs around his waist as her hands waded through his hair. The events of the last few weeks fell away, all of the anger and bitterness reduced to bits of dust and scattered by strong winds. His finger wedged inside the waist of her pants, curling around the waist before tugging down.

She took the upper hand now, pushing him off to shimmy out of her pants and settle on top of him. The cheap fabric curtains were pulled away from the window and the diamond on her hand couldn't help but catch the moonlight. She glared down at it for a moment before turning the stone into her palm. The crime she committed, the people she destroyed to get the gem and the man that gave it to her…she realized that she had to remind herself why it was worth it then. _Then_. As for now…

"This is wrong," he breathed when she pulled back, kneeling next to him to pull the pants from his body.

She lay next to him, her body stretched out against his and her arm draped across his chest. "But where did being right get you?" She nibbled at his jaw and asked again, "Where did it get you?"

He turned onto his side, wrapping his arm around her waist. "No where," he mumbled as he drew her closer. The bass from next door continued to thump the walls as he overtook her. Or she overtook him.

He wasn't quite sure what the right answer was anymore.

* * *

Harsh sunlight glared in through the window, lighting up every once dark corner of the small room. The beach that the window opened out onto was empty, save for the pair of joggers running along the shoreline. 

She rolled over with a groan, hiding her eyes from the painful light. The inexpensive pillow was flat beneath her head and she pulled the rough sheet over her face.

"Here," a deep voice said as a hand settled on her hip. She peaked out from beneath the white sheet and met his brown eyes. "This must have fallen out of your purse last night," he explained, passing her a small gold pillbox engraved with a rose.

She took the box without a word, dropping several of the extra strength pills into her mouth. She watched him turn around to the night table, passing her a small glass of water.

"Isn't that more than the recommended dose?" he asked as she swallowed the water, grimacing against the cold temperature.

She shrugged and he took the empty glass from her as she folded the pillow in half, laying her head down again. "With a headache like this, I don't think I'll be faulted," she mumbled. "Why are you so…_normal_?" she asked dryly, pressing the bridge of her nose as if somehow it could relieve the pounding in her head.

He chuckled sheepishly, leaning back against the warped headboard. "Because I already took about six of those aspirins."

The headboard groaned against his weight and she looked up, a small smile dancing on her lips. The jeans he wore fit his body perfectly, seemingly part and parcel. "How long have you been awake?" she wondered as she hugged the sheet to her chest.

He looked out the window, the bright sunlight stinging his eyes. "I saw the sun come up," he said as he stood up.

She watched his bare back, the muscles rippling like waves beneath his skin as he rolled his shoulders. He was tanned and fit, the epitome of youth. Not that he was really _that_ much younger. However, younger was younger.

"There were too many voices in my head, too many things fighting for attention," he continued as he turned back to her. His eyes were clearer now, the heavy anguish from last night gone…only to be replaced with a dark haunting. "I tried sleeping, tried closing my eyes but- that only seemed to make things worse."

"The dark usually does," she interjected softly, staring off into space as she listened to him. "Night is the worst."

"Yeah." He shoved his hands deep down in his pockets and rocked back on his heel.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, pregnant with everything left unsaid. He cleared his throat and crossed to the window, leaning against the warm pane of thick glass. With a sigh, he stared out at the horizon, still slightly hazy. "I watched the sun come up…and I felt nothing. The room grew lighter," he continued, "and I watched it rise and…there was nothing. Nothing but the ugly feeling that it was the end."

She turned onto her back, one bare leg curling out from underneath the sheet. She folded her arm beneath her head, a better cushion than the pillow would ever be. His voice was flat, deader than his eyes.

"The end of what?"

He looked over, pushing away from the window. "Everything."

"That's a little dramatic," she sighed as she sat up. "Don't you think?"

He shook his head and grabbed his shirt from the foot of the bed. He tugged the simple gray tee over his head, running his hand through his uncombed hair. "I resigned from the force yesterday, after killing a murder suspect that my gut told me was innocent even though all of the evidence said otherwise. Dramatic?" he asked scornfully. "Dramatic doesn't even begin to describe the half of it."

She was quiet, mulling over his outburst silently until she sat up abruptly. "You're talking about Annie Douglas!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock.

He smiled sadly, patting his back pocket for his wallet. "You can relax," he ordered as she jumped up from the bed, the white sheet draped around her torso. "The case is closed, by special order of the prosecutor. She's a good friend of your husband, isn't she?"

She frowned, glaring at him with an ice that would rival the polar caps. "What are you implying, _Detective_?" Condescension dripped from her lips, her eyes blazing bright.

"Not a thing, _Mrs. Richards_," he shot back, pushing his feet into his shoes. "You and your husband can sleep easy again."

Her jaw tightened as she reached out and grabbed his arm, forcing him to look up. "Was that what this was about?" she asked quietly, gesturing towards the bed.

He looked at the bed, mussed pillows and sheets that looked like they survived a wicked hurricane. She was searching his face, waiting for his response when she squeezed his arm and asked urgently, "Was it?"

He shook off her grasp, turning away from her questioning eyes. "I'll check out and settle the bill for the room."

"Answer me damnit!"

He balked at the door, his hand already on the knob when he turned around. "Last night," he said quietly, the words weighing heavily in the charged silence, "had nothing to do with anything. It was a mistake."

A shadow flickered across her face, a spark dying in her eyes as her expression hardened again and she hissed, "The _biggest_ mistake." She turned to the window, tightening the sheet over her chest as she glared out at the sunny beach.

He fingered the knob, ready to turn it and pull the door open when he asked, "Did you kill Del?"

She flinched and turned around slowly, quiet disbelief on her face. Scoffing, she shook her head and folded her arms over her chest. "Once a detective," she trailed off, the rest of the adage dying on her lips. She squared her shoulders, staring dead into the core of his eyes as she said clearly, "No."

He cocked his head, a wistful smile on his lips. "For the record, I never thought you did."

The door squeaked as he closed it, leaving her alone in the room. She sighed deeply, letting go a breath she didn't realize she had held.


	3. It's Been Swell

**_NOTE: I do hope you enjoyed the story even if you didn't necessarily agree with the characters paired as a couple. Thanks to everyone who left feedback- I appreciated it. _:o)**

(See first part for disclaimer, notes, spoilers, etc.)

Chapter 3: "It's Been Swell"

It had seemed like such a good idea at first. And it had made _such_ sense.

"Which is probably the moment our brilliant plan began to descend that slippery slope," she muttered under her breath. She curled her fingers around the bars, flinching against the cold metal.

"You're whispering again."

She looked up, momentarily forgetting about the other person in the room. She let go of the gray bars quickly, as if she just realized her hands were wrapped around it. "Only to myself this time."

"It's not the most becoming of places, is it?" Elaine asked after a moment. The silence was deafening as she watched her old friend, waiting quietly for a response that seemed not to come.

"No, it's not," she admitted, the ghost of a smile curling her lips as she smoothed the sky blue fabric of her skirt.

Elaine stood quickly, glancing around the holding cell to ensure that they were alone. "Be reasonable," she pled, grabbing hold of the bars that framed her face. She took a deep breath, her eyes wide as she made her case. "I know you and Bette mean well, but this is ridiculous!"

She bit her lip, watching as Elaine ran her hands through her short red hair and continued, "You're a lawyer's wife too. Gregory would never-"

"He doesn't know," she interrupted, taking a step closer to the wall of bars between them.

"Then you know this whole scheme is foolish. Call it off."

"We want to help you."

Elaine crossed her arms over her chest as she turned away. "Where I'm going," she glanced over her shoulder, "you can't help. This isn't like the last time."

The silence hung between them, the words sinking into the emptiness. She locked her hands, fingering the large diamond quietly. She swallowed hard against the guilt rising in her throat. "It's _because_ of the last time…," she trailed off.

"I couldn't have asked for better friends than you and Bette." She felt her friend's hand tremble and she squeezed it lightly. "You were both there for me at the lowest point of my life, helping with everything I asked of you. But this," she sighed, lowering her eyes, "I did all by myself."

Her breathing ran ragged, her face pale as her lips slowly parted. "Elaine…"

"Did you now?"

She glanced over her shoulder to find him leaning against the doorframe, his hands casually hanging out of his pockets. Her eyes hardened as she took in his smug expression and she pulled her hand free from Elaine's. "Is this an interrogation, _Detective_?" she asked.

He shook his head, pushing away from the wall and crossing the cement floor to the cell. "Not at all." She flinched as the cell door clanged open and he stepped in. "But I would like a few moments of your time, if that's alright with you of course," he added with a graciousness that tested the bounds of sincerity.

"_Of course_," she cooed, her eyes sharp as she gazed back at him. She turned to Elaine, quick to smile reassuringly. "Everything will be fine," she promised softly. She tucked the white leather handbag under her arm and followed him out of the cell.

Her heels clicked against the worn linoleum, filling the emptiness of the hallway. He increased his step until he fell in beside her. The gentle hum of voices floated through an open doorway and he reached up suddenly, grasping her elbow as he pulled her into an interrogation room. She shook off his touch, sliding into the uncomfortable chair before her as he closed the door firmly behind them.

He perched himself on the edge of the table, watching her expectantly. "It's not too late to have your attorney present."

She glanced up, folding her hands together. "You said this wasn't an interrogation."

His grin had the unique distinction of being both cocky and boyish. "I did say that, didn't I?"

"Let's dispense with the formalities, Detective." She squared her shoulders, locking him in her gaze. "Are you going to take my statement or not?"

"Why should I?" he asked, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"Because," she insisted, threads of irritation woven into her speech, "I have one to give."

He shrugged disinterestedly, pushing himself off the table. Shaking his head, as if he were wrestling an idea with his mind, he walked around to the opposite side of the table. "Your statement, if we can even call it that, isn't what interests me."

"And why not?"

He leaned down to the table, the shirt bunching around his bent elbows. "Your husband spent the last three and a half months doing everything within his power- and above the _law_- to keep the focus of this investigation off of you. And now you and Bette storm in here, proclaiming your guilt and demanding to give a statement? I don't think so." He paused for the briefest of moments, his eyes flickering away from hers as he said softly, "And I already told you that I didn't think you were the murderer."

Her hand twitched on the table as her eyes narrowed with surprise. "It didn't mean anything to me then," she insisted, her voice dangerously low as she fingered the diamond on her ring finger, "and it doesn't now."

He nodded curtly, standing straight and pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Fair enough."

The air was so thick with unspoken tension it could have been cut with a butter knife. A shadow passed by the door, disembodied by the frosted glass. He slumped against the wall, his head bowed slightly.

"What made you think that?" He looked up as she asked again, "What made you so sure it wasn't me?"

He sighed deeply, considering the question. "You were suspicious. You were damn suspicious," he added, "but my gut said you weren't guilty."

"Why?" She leaned in closer, her eyes flashing impatiently as she waited for his answer.

"I didn't think you were ruthless enough to shoot someone multiple times at close range."

She sat back heavily, crossing her legs beneath the table. Clasping her hands lightly in her lap, she watched him silently for several beats. "I suppose though none of that really matters anymore."

"The real murderer has been arrested."

"And Annie Douglas was brought back to life."

He nodded slowly, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "Yes, she is," he said softly. He sat up, looking straight at her as he began, "About that night-"

She held up her hand, cutting off his words abruptly. "It's over," she reminded him as the sound of feet thundering down the hallway entered their realm.

He looked up slowly, his eyes riveted to the door. "Your husband, I presume."

She could hear Gregory barking orders, his voice growing louder and more insistent as he neared the interrogation room. "Let us never speak of this again," she whispered urgently.

"_Open the door, Officer_." He stood up as the door opened and Gregory charged in.

"I'm fine," she was quick to say as she stood, her palms resting on the lapel of Gregory's dark suit.

Gregory's arm went around her waist, hugging her to him reassuringly. "Interrogation without their legal counsel, is it Detective?" he asked.

He folded his arms over his chest, matching Gregory's superior tone with a nonchalant one he could barely contain. "Just an informal chat, Counselor. Nothing more."

Gregory smirked, glancing from the detective, to his wife and back again. "Keep it that way." He plucked his wife's purse from the table and passed it to her as he said, "I trust you've gotten everything from her that you need?"

Their eyes met as Gregory continued, "My wife and Elaine Stevens have known each for years, Detective. Anything that my wife did or said she did was out of respect for that friendship- remember that."

He nodded, but looked only at her as he said, "If you know anything that can help in Elaine's defense, please let me know."

"She will," Gregory promised curtly as he took her by the hand and led her out of the interrogation room.

As they were leaving, she glanced over her shoulder. She smiled subtly, amusement dancing in her voice as she said softly, "It's been swell."

He could hear Gregory speaking to her in hushed tones as they walked away, their footsteps fading down the hallway. Her perfume lingered in the dead air and he inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of rose petals. He sighed deeply as he glanced around the empty room that still managed to be so uncomfortably full.

**_The End..._**


End file.
